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MERCHANTS 

ofthe 

MORNING 

SAMUEL  McCOY 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 
SAMUEL  McCOY 


MERCHANTS 

OF    THE    MORNING 


BY 

SAMUEL  McCOY 


! 


)RGE  H.  DORAN  COMPAN 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  George  E.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


To  the  publishers  of  the  various  periodicals  and 
journals  in  which  these  poems  first  appeared: 
The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Scribners  Magazine,  Har- 
per s,  McClure  s,  Contemporary  Verse,  The  Masses, 
Metropolitan,  Poetry,  Ainslee's,  The  North  Ameri- 
can Review,  The  Bookman,  and  others,  grateful 
acknowledgment  of  their  permission  to  reprint 
under  new  copyright  is  here  made. 


a 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  OLD  TAVERN _T J3 

BRIDAL  SONG l6 

VOYAGEURS*  SONG 1 8 

THE  ARGONAUTS 20 

OUR  WORD 22 

AN  OLD  MOTHER 23 

AN  OLD  MINISTER 24 

THE  BRIGHT  DAY ^ 25 

seaman's  KNELL 28 

the  fleet 29 

dirge:  for  a  dead  admiral 35 

the  gardener  of  the  sea 38 

the  off-shore  wind  .........  41 

AIR  CURRENTS 43 

THE  HOBBY-HORSE 44 

THOMPSON  STREET 47 

THE  MOTHER 49 

THE  BONDWOMAN 5° 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 


,    PAGE 

FLOWER-GIRL 52 

NURSERY  JINGLE 54 

INDEPENDENCE  HALL*.    I915 56 

DREAMERS 58 

THE  DRUM 59 

EASTER,  I917 62 

VICTORY? 64 

TO-MORROW's  WAR 66 

THE  HOLY  WAR 68 

SARRAN 72 

REVEILLE 74 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 


MERCHANTS 
OF  THE  MORNING 

THE  OLD  TAVERN 

To  the  oldest  inn  they  knew  of 

The  rogue  made  the  townsmen  lead  him; 
Down  he  sat  and  bade  his  crew  of 

Gentlemen  adventurers  heed  him: — 
"This,"  he  said,  "is  that  old  Tavern 

Where  that  olden  Poet  led  me; 
Here,  in  this  oak-ribbed  cavern, 

Here,  on  golden  songs  he  fed  me  I" 

And  the  townsmen,  gaping,  winking, 
And  his  men,  their  spurred  heels  clinking, 
Laughed,  each  one  within  him  thinking, 
"Songs  are  no  one's  eating,  drinking  1" 

But  the  rogue,  whose  heart  was  hidden 

Underneath  his  iron  vesture, 
Drove  them  out,  so  that  forbidden 

Were  they,  by  his  kingly  gesture. 
13 


14    MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 


THE  OLD  TAVERN  (Continued) 

"This,"  he  mused,  "is  that  old  Tavern 
Where  that  olden  Poet  led  me; 

Here,  in  this  oak-ribbed  cavern, 
Here,  on  his  own  songs  he  fed  me  I" 

And  the  shadows,  now  retreating, 
Now  advancing,  seemed  repeating 
To  themselves*  in  whispers  fleeting, 
"Songs  are  this  man's  drinking,  eating  I" 

And  the  children,  shyly  coming 

To  him  where  he  sat  at  table, 
Climbed  his  mail-clad  knees,  and  humming 

Those  songs,  begged  of  him  their  fable. 
"Ah,"  he  smiled,  "though  sorely  troubled, 

Here  he  drank  of  that  rich,  ruddy 
Wine  that  from  his  own  heart  bubbled, 

So  his  very  lip  seemed  bloody  l" 

Then  the  shadows  fled  to  dusty 
Corners  of  that  chamber  musty, 
As  they  used  when  life  was  lusty, 
And  his  throat  was  not  so  rusty! 

"Inn,"  he  said,  "thou  shalt  outlast  me 
Year  on  year,  while  youth  and  maiden 


MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING    15 

I 

THE  OLD  TAVERN  (Continued) 

One  by  one  go  singing  past  thee, 
For  with  memories  art  thou  laden; 

Stand  thou  then,  thou  ancient  Tavern, 
Where  thy  olden  Captain  led  me; 

Stand,  thou  dark,  oak-ribbed  cavern 
Where  on  golden  songs  he  fed  me  I" 

Therefore  that  kind  roof,  upholden 
By  the  mellowed  timbers  olden, 
Like  shy  hearts  good  wines  embolden, 
Shall  hear  newer  songs  and  golden  1 


16    MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 


BRIDAL  SONG 

In  a  dark  garden  of  the  West, 

Where  the  rich  robing  of  the  slumb'rous  summer 

Cast  shadow,  splendid  shadow,  on  the  garden's 

breast, 
(For  the  bright  moon  was  late,  a  tardy  comer) 
In  the  soft  shadow  of  the  night  of  dreams, 
He  walked  with  one  who  bore  within  her  hands 
The  gift  of  princes  of  the  Orient  lands, 
A  woven  spendour,  woven  without  seams, 
A  living  garment,  fashioned  out  of  fire, 
A  garment  lit  with  soft  and  slumb'rous  fire, 
Bright  burning  with  its  passion  unconfessed, 
Which  he  had  given  her  in  mastery; 
For  this  was  that  proud  garment  of  the  breast, 
Fashioned  from  all  his  worship  of  the  best, 
Fashioned  from  many  a  night  of  sleepless  misery, 
From  many  a  day  of  splendid  ecstasy, 
From  his  dear  father's  name, 
From  his  mother's  holy  flame, 
From  all  his  heritage  of  manliness; 
(And  who  shall  name  the  greater  or  the  less 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    17 


BRIDAL  SONG  (Continued)      - 

Among  the  fires  within  that  magic  dress?) 
And  this  she  bore  within  her  happy  hands; 
And  the  bright  globe, 

The  moon,  that  rises  tardy  over  garden  lands, 
Arose  at  last  and  saw  the  glimmering  robe, 
Shimmering   with   secret   fire   within  her  happy 
hands. 

At  last  he  folded  her  upon  his  breast, 

Wore  her  like  a  warm  jewel  on  his  breast, 

Bore  her,  the  purest  and  the  best, 

Like  a  bright  jewel,  breathing  on  his  breast; 

And  when  the  night  was  holy 

And  odorous  breezes  lowly 

Whispered  among  the  leaves, 

And  the  bright  moon  rose  higher, 

Dropping  its  heavenly  fire 

Where  the  dark  water  weaves 

Its  answering  glory, 

He  told  her  all  his  worship  unconfessed; 

All  the  proud,  piteous  story 

Of  the  soft  fire  within  the  breast, 

And  she,  like  a  warm  jewel  breathing, 

Feeling  his  passion  wreathing 

Its  piteous,  proud  splendour  round  her  breast, 

Listened,  and  was  at  rest. 


18    MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 


VOYAGEURS'  SONG 

But  what  was  before  us  we  know  not, 
And  we  know  not  what  shall  succeed. 

— Matthew  Arnold. 

Drift,  brothers,  drift! 
Down  the  long  shallow  reaches  floating,  floating! 
Our  voices  lift 
Songs  of  another  home,  another  year. 
O  hark!  the  hidden  singer  answers  clear — 
The  thrush  pours  out  his  golden-timbred  throat- 
ing 1 


Fast,  brothers,  fast, 
Down  the  swift  rapids  our  canoes  are  flying,  fly- 
ing! 
The  bend  is  passed, 
Where  long-leafed  willows  rest  upon  the  stream 
And  hide  the  eddy  with  its  breast  agleam, 
And  last  the  River,  in  his  broad  strength  lying! 


MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING    19 

VOYAGEURS'  SONG  (Continued) 

Soon  sets  the  sun; 
From  the  dark  ripples  fast  the  light  is  flowing, 
flowing  I 
See,  one  by  one, 
Bright  in  the  swirling  flood,  the  stars  gleam 

out; 
Now    friendly    voice9    raise    their    answering 
shout; 
See,  on  the  farther  shore,  the  camp-fire  glowing! 


20  MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 


THE  ARGONAUTS 

O  sing  to  us  of  home! 

Of  true  and  simple  things! 

Till  hearts  no  longer  roam, 

But  fold  their  wild,  wild  wings! 

For  wanderers  are  we 

Upon  the  wide-stretched  earth — 

Strange  was  the  farther  sea 

And  finer  was  its  mirth! 

We  set  our  hopeful  sails, 

We  voyaged  through  the  years : 

Say,  now  the  sunset  pales, 

Found  we  more  mirth  than  tears? 

What  argosies  aflame 

We  launched  to  unknown  coasts ! 

Say,  won  they  not  the  same, 

Who  smiled  to  hear  our  boasts? 

Let  us  go  back!  to  those 

Who  wiselier  kept  the  old: 

Their  steadier  star  arose 

Above  their  own  hearth's  gold! 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    21 


THE  ARGONAUTS  (Continued) 
O  sing  to  us  of  home, 
And  true  and  simple  things  I 
No  longer  would  we  roam, 
But  fold  our  tired  wings  1 


22     MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 


OUR  WORD 

There  is  a  word  in  your  loved  native  tongue, 
Closer  and  dearer  and  than  all  more  sweet, 
Which  wanderers  in  their  wistful  dreams  repeat : 
Name  of  the  happy  house  which  love  has  hung 
With  all  high  gentlenesses;  where  has  clung 
Truth;  honour;  quiet  joys;  warm  charity; 
That  fireside  sprite,  frank  hospitality; 
Place  where  our  best-loved  songs  are  sung; 
Where  world-bewildered  children  find  the  warm 
Enfolding  refuge  of  their  mother's  breast 
And  take  the  blessing  of  the  hallowed  tome; 
Walled  garden;  harbour  sheltered  from  all  storm; 
Safe  sanctuary;  by  the  world's  unrest 
Inviolate;  the  love-locked  haven — "Homel" 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MOBNING    23 


AN  OLD  MOTHER 

Dear  mother,  standing  as  a  much-loved  queen, 
Leaving  her  throne  to  rest  a  while,  might  stand, 
At  the  low  lintel  of  your  kitchen  door  .  .  . 

Let  me  be  laureate  in  your  loved  demesne, 
The  singer  of  your  peaceful,  wondrous  land: 
For  no  land  has  deserved  men's  worship  more. 

Tired  eyes,  tired  hands,  worn  body,  worn  for 

mine! 
Your  white  hair,  mother,  makes  your  only  crown, 
And  calico,  work-stained,  your  common  dress  .  .  . 

But  O,  upon  your  face  what  peace  divine ! 
What  jollity  that  will  not  be  cast  down, 
And  love  that  covereth  all  with  loveliness! 


U     MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 
r 


a 


AN  OLD  MINISTER 
for  the  prize  of  the  high  calling  of  God" 


In  hours  when  I  review  that  one  dear  life, 
The  life  of  that  one  man  whom  most  I  owe, 
And  ponder  whether  rich  or  vain  his  strife, 
His  toil  repaid  with  bitter  wage  or  no; 
If  piteous  harvest  before  winter  snow; 
His  head  unlaurelled  though  his  long  race  run; 
By  no  strong  son  led  where  still  waters  flow; 
Day  hardly  softened,  though  it  be  near  done, — 

I  cry  in  pity;  yet  the  westering  sun, 
With  glory  not  of  earth,  lights  up  his  face, 
And  Heaven  hallows  him,  as  who  has  won 
His  earthly  fight;  far  beyond  power  to  trace 
My  helpless  love;  and  peace  rests  in  his  eyes, 
And  God's  high  calling  is  his  matchless  prize. 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    *5 


THE  BRIGHT  DAY 

//  is  vain  for  you  to  rise  up  early, 

To  sit  up  late, 

To  eat  the  bread  of  sorrows: 

For  so  he  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

— Psalm  cxxvii. 

After  a  little  space, 

Mary,  his  dearest  daughter,  covered  up  his  face 

And  stayed  her  tears. 

For  her  own  task  it  was,  she  knew,  to  face  the 

years, 
And  live  life  through  as  he  had  always  led — 
The  life  whose  every  thread 
Made  part  of  the  plain  cloak  called  Sacrifice; 
A  coat  without  device, 

But  one  which  many,  many  hearts  have  blessed 
For  its  warm  love,  and  pressed 
Its  rough  folds  to  their  lips  and  wept. 
For  she  rememEered  how  her  hand  he  kept 
Within  his  own,  and  with  her  walked  afield 
And  watched  the  sunset  its  last  glory  yield. 
All  this  came  back  to  her: 
All  little  things  that  were : 


26  MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 

THE  BRIGHT  DAY  (Continued) 

And  every  dear  remembrance  on  her  heart 
Laid  its  rich  sorrow  and  its  mortal  smart, 
Too  exquisite  bereavement  to  be  borne. 


Yet,  after  the  long  night,  the  austere  morn, 
Smiling  upon  her,  said  with  gentleness : — 

/  am  the  living,  and  I  am  no  less 

The  dead.    For  they  have  entered  into  me: 

To-day,  not  yesterday,  is  their  eternity. 

Your  past  must  die  with  him  you  loved  so  much; 

He  is  a  part  of  me;  and  you  must  touch 

My  hand  with  the  warm  love  of  a  young  child. 

For  I,  the  living  world,  am  reconciled 

To  God's  unpitying  plan;  and  all  my  hours, 

My  tasks,  my  needs  imperative,  and  my  bright 

flowers, 
Are  fashioned  from  the  souls  of  those  who  wor- 
ship God. 
Nothing  God  made  is  underneath  the  sod ! 
I  am  To-day,  my  daughter,  and  I  need  your  love  1 
Look  up  above — 

The  sky  is  leaden,  and  the  cheerless  rain 
Makes  its  own  misery  and  pain; 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    27 
I  — 

THE  BRIGHT  DAY  (Continued) 

But  you  and  I  can  only  bear  to  hear, 
Deep  in  our  hearts,  the  joyous,  clear, 
Brave  music  of  the  soul  that  sings 
Of  coming  day  and  living  things  I 


28     MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 

i 


SEAMAN'S  KNELE 

Where  the  Atlantic  runneth  free, 
Where  the  Sea  hath  sovereignty, 
Where  the  Sun's  unsheathed  glaive 
Hath  answer  from  the  flashing  wave, 

There  thou  sinkest, 

There  thou  drinkest 

Of  the  draught  from  which  thou  shrinkest, 

There  thou  sinkest, 

And  the  deeps  go  over  thee. 

Thing,  where  sea-things  feed  and  die, 
Canst  thou  turn  thy  sightless  eye 
Upward?  through  the  cold,  cold  sea, 
Know  what  deeps  go  over  thee? 

Thou  art  older, 

Thou  art  colder, 

Than  the  wave  that  weights  thy  shoulder, 

Naught  can  moulder 

In  the  grave  where  thou  dost  lie  I 


MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING    29 


THE  FLEET 

OFF  THE  COAST  OF  VIRGINIA 

"Seeing  honour  is  our  lives*  ambition,  and  our  ambition  after 
death  to  have  an  honourable  memory  of  our  life." — Captain 
John  Smith. 

In  the  darkness  before  dawn 
I  awoke  from  out  my  sleep, 
Where  I  slept  upon  the  land, 
And  I  knew  that  sleep  was  gone; 
For  I  heard  the  restless  deep 
Run  swift  along  the  sand, 
Ebb,  and  return  once  more; 
And  I  felt  the  cool,  soft  breeze 
Blowing  upon  my  face 
And  I  rose  and  sought  the  shore, 
Where  the  recurrent  seas, 
Like  horses,  ran  their  race; 
The  grey  robes  of  the  fog 
Heaved  with  the  heaving  swells, 
And  darkness  lay  around; 
But  I  heard  some  old  sea-dog, 


30  MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 

THE  FLEET  (Continued) 

Close  in-shore,  call,  "Six  bells  1" 

And  I  heard  the  muffled  sound 

Of  oars,  and,  farther  out, 

A  rattling  anchor  chain 

And  the  wash  against  some  hulk, 

And,  fainter  still,  a  shout  .  .  . 

And  the  Fleet  slept  again. 

But  a  grey,  shadowy  bulk, 
A  phantom  from  the  wrack, 
Which  broke  to  let  it  through, 
Took  sudden  shape  and  came 
Upon  the  ground-swell's  back 
Straight  toward  me,  and  I  knew, 
Like  a  familiar  name, 
The  pinnace!     English-built, 
Three  hundred  years  ago, 
Her  banked  oars  rose  and  dipped 
(To  an  ancient,  deep-sea  lilt) 
As  a  boat-crew  used  to  row! 
And  like  one  the  oars  were  shipped 
As  they  ran  her  on  the  beach ; 
And  I  saw  the  leathern  skin 
And  the  earrings  and  the  queues 
Of  the  tars  who  manned  her — each 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    31 
i 

THE  FLEET  (Continued) 

Hailing  me  as  of  their  kin; 
And  I  knew  what  mighty  cruise 
These  rough  mates  were  landing  from; 
And  my  blood  rushed  to  my  cheek 
And  I  blessed  them  on  my  knees; 
As  a  soldier  at  the  drum 
Thrills,  I  thrilled  at  sight  of  these 
And  I  wept,  and  could  not  speak  I 

Do  you  ask  me  whence  they  came?, 
And  American  you  too? 
They  the  men  of  Sunken  Fleets, 
Men  that  swept  the  seas  like  flame, 
English-brave  and  English-true/ 
From  the  cliffs  where  Cornwall  meets 
The  Atlantic's  endless  foam, 
From  the  old  sea-towns  of  Devoti 
And  the  shifting  sands  of  Dee, 
Where  the  petrel  has  her  home, 
And  the  storm  cloud  splits  with  levin, 
Came  these  bullies  of  the  sea! 

And  they  passed  me  close  at  hand, 
And  their  captains,  whom  at  first 
Had  been  hidden  from  my  view, 


32     MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 

THE  FLEET  (Continued) 

Paced  along  the  wet  sea-sand 

Arm  in  arm,  with  many  a  burst 

Of  laughter  which  the  salt  breeze  blew 

Toward  me,  from  their  bearded  throats. 

(Never  more  shall  be  such  gain 

As  I  count  this,  to  have  seen 

All  the  captains  of  the  boats 

First  to  dare  the  unmapped  main 

And  court  danger  like  a  queen!) 

Do  you  ask  me  who  they  were? 

And  American  you  too? 

These  were  they  who  laughed  at  death 

And  laid  their  lives  for  her, 

Greatest  England  ever  knew, 

Maiden  queen,  Elizabeth! 

And  they  named  the  land  they  found 

For  the  virgin  queen,  good  Bess, 

Great  Virginia,  the  proud! 

Slight  indeed  or  risk  or  wound 

For  such  lands  and  loveliness! 

First  of  all  among  the  train, 
Named  like  a  trumpet-call  to  charge, 
Was  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  knight, 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    33 

THE  FLEET  (Continued) 

"Shepherd  of  the  ocean  plain," 
First  to  crave  the  sandy  marge 
Of  Virginia,  first  whose  sight 
Foretold  the  great  state  to  be; 
And  his  fine  hands  rested  on 
Two  friends1  shoulders — two  whose  deeds 
Shall  be  sung  unceasingly: 
Drake,  who  struck  th'  Armada  down! 
Grenville,  whose  great  sea-fight  leads 
All  the  fights  on  sea  or  shore! 
These  the  three  great  admirals 
(Laughing  like  three  clear-eyed  boys) 
Who  shall  live  forevermore  ! 
On  whose  names  the  sailor  calls 
In  the  gale  or  battle-noise! 

And  there  passed  among  the  van 

Old  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  the  dam 

Of  the  foundling  colony; 

Sir  George  Somers — gentleman, 

Who  was  on  the  shore  a  lamb, 

But  a  lion  on  the  sea; 

Robert  Hunt,  the  old  sea-saint; 

Tanned  with  each  sea  wind  that  blows, 

Mate  Bartholomew  Gosnold — 


34  MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 

\  : 

THE  FLEET  (Continued) 

Sailormen  without  a  taint, 

Better  held  as  friends  than  foes — 

God  gave  them  the  sea  to  hold! 

Last  of  all  th'  Atlantic's  brood, 
Came  from  out  the  sea-fog's  pall, 
Voyager   and   fighting-man, 
Captain  John  Smith,  plain   and  rude; 
Last  and  greatest  of  them  all — 
First  and  true  American! 

So,  before  the  fog  had  fled 

At  the  dawn,  they  passed  from  sight 

And  their  bold  staves  died  away, 

But  still  rang  within  my  head 

Each  adventure  and  sea  fight 

That  shall  never  pass  away! 

"Be  of  good  cheer,"  one  had  said 

As  he  bade  his  men  good-bye, 

"Heaven's  as  near  by  sea   as  land!" 

And  the  old  fire  is  not  dead, 
And  the  brave  shall  never  die, 
While  the  land  they  found  shall  stand! 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    35 


DIRGE:  FOR  A  DEAD  ADMIRAL 

"What  woman  but  would  be 
Rid  of  thy  mastery, 
Thou  bully  of  the  sea? 

No  more  the  grey  sea's  breast 
Need  answer  thy  behest; 
No  more  thy  sullen  gun 
Shall  greet  the  risen  sun, 
Where  the  great  dreadnaughts  ride 
The  breast  of  thy  cold  bride; 
Thou  hast  fulfilled  thy  fate : 
Need  trade  no  more  with  hate ! 


Nay,  but  I  celebrate 
Thy  long-to-be  lorn  mate, 
Thy  mistress  and  her  state, 
Thy  lady  sea's  lorn  state. 
She  hath  her  empery 
Not  only  over  the§ 


36  MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 

DIRGE:  FOR  A  DEAD  ADMIRAL  (Continued I 

But  o'er  our  misery, — 

Hark,  doth  she  mourn  for  thee? 

Nay,  what  hath  she  of  grief? 
She  knoweth  not  the  leaf 
That  on  her  bosom  falls, 
Thou  last  of  admirals! 

Under  the  winter  moon 
She  singeth  that  fierce  tune, 
Her  immemorial  rune; 
Knoweth  not,  late  or  soon, 
Careth  not 
Any  jot 

For  her  withholden  boon 
To  all  thy  spirit's  pleas 
For  infinite  surcease ! 

If,  on  this  winter  night, 

O  thou  great  admiral 

That  in  thy  sombre  pall 

Liest  upon  the  land, 

Thy  soul  should  take  his  flight 

And  leave  the  frozen  sand 

And  yearn  above  the  surge. 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    37 

I  =5 

DIRGE:  FOR  A  DEAD  ADMIRAL   (Continued) 

Think'st  thou  that  any  dirge, 
Grief  inarticulate 
From  thy  bereaved  mate, 
Would  answer  to  thy  soul 
Where  the  waste  waters  roll? 

Nay,  thou  hast  need  of  none! 
Thy  long  love-watch  is  done ! 
Go,  weary  lover,  pass 
To  that  bright  gulf  of  glass 
Where  thou  shalt  ever  be 
Fain  of  an  endless  seal 


38  MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 


THE  GARDENER  OF  THE  SEA 


Do  you  remember  that  long-vanished  night, 
Master,  upon  the  lake  of  Galilee, 
When  the  rude,  boist'rous  waves  did  sore  affright 
Matthieu  and  Marc  and  stronger  men  than  me? 
Then,  in  the  fourth  watch,  when  all  hope  was 

gone, 
A  radiance  and  a  quiet  'round  them  grew, 
And,  like  a  gardener  on  some  still,  smooth  lawn, 
A  Spirit  walked  the  waves — ah,  Lord,  'twas  you  I 
And  some  there  were  who  cried  out  at  that  wraith 
(That  seemed)  that  trod  the  murderous  sea, 
But  Peter  (who  am  I)  said  in  his  faith: 
"Lord,  if  it  be  thou,  bid  me  come  to  thee l" 
Yea,  of  that  Garden,  to  keep  watch  and  ward, 
Make  me  your  under-gardener,  O  Lord! 


MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING    39 


THE  GARDENER  OF  THE  SEA  (Continued) 


II 

As  a  bird  (flying 

While  night  comes  on 
And  the  light,   dying, 

Foretells  no  dawn) 

Wearily  searches, 

Haven  to  find, 
Seeks,  never  perches, 

Through  terror  blind: 

So,  over  surges 

Of  all  despair, 
My  soul  He  scourges 

Till  I  grasp  prayer. 

Ill 

At  evening,  when  the  sky's  rich  tapestries 
Of  Tyrian  blue  grow  thick  with  golden  globes, 
The  Gardener  of  the  Sea  with  heavenly  shoon 
Walks  to  and  fro  within  its  several  bounds, 
As  one  with  sandals  wet  by  twilight  dews 
Might  move  in  quiet  in  his  garden  paths. 


40  MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 

THE  GARDENER  OP  THE  SEA  (Continued) 

Unquiet  Garden!  that  with  lifeless  life 

Doth  crawl  and  lick  the  Gardener's  pierced  feet ! 

Forever  sterile,  though  forever  sown 

With  seed  of  ships  and  stars  and  crumbling  lands ; 

Forever  sterile,  yet  forever  bright 

With  the  white  flashing  bloom  of  breaking  seas; 

Aceldama  of  nations,  that  entombs 

The  nameless  legions  of  antiquity; 

Only  the  Gardener  dare  furrow  thee, 

Thou  field  as  restless  as  a  caged  beast, 

And  thee  He  plougheth  with  His  four  great  winds, 

And  harrows  thee  with  whirlpool  and  with  storm. 

Evening,  with  silver-studded  blue  arras 

Arching  above  this  cloister,  and  the  house 

Of  night  enclose  the  Garden's  heaving  floor; 

A  million  stars  are  drowned,  not  too  deep 

To  ride  and  flash  like  silver  lanterns,  there; 

And  the  night  breeze  sweeps  cool,  and  yet  more 

cool 
Across  the  Garden  and  its  dark,  swift  hills, 
And  lo !  upon  the  moving  waters'  face, 
The  Gardener  walking,  veiled  in  majesty! 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    41 


THE  OFF-SHORE  WIND 

The  skies  are  sown  with  stars  to-night, 

The  sea  is  sown  with  light, 

The  hollows  of  the  heaving  floor 

Gleam  deep  with  light  once  more, 

The  racing  ebb-tide  flashes  past 

And  seeks  the  vacant  vast, 

A  wind  steals  from  a  world  asleep 

And  walks  the  restless  deep. 

It  walks  the  deep  in  ecstasy, 

It  lives !  and  loves  to  free 

Its  spirit  to  the  silent  night, 

And  breathes  deep  in  delight; 

Above  the  sea  that  knows  no  coast, 

Beneath  the  starry  host, 

The  wind  walks  like  the  souls  of  men 

Who  walk  with  God  again. 

The  souls  of  men  who  walk  with  God! 
With  faith's  firm  sandals  shod, 
A  lambent  passion,  body-free, 


42  MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 

THE  OFF-SHORE  WIND  (Continued) 

Fain  for  eternity! 
O  spirit  born  of  human  sighs, 
Set  loose  'twixt  sea  and  skies, 
Be  thou  an  Angel  of  mankind, 
Thou  night-unfettered  wind  I 

Bear  thou  the  dreams  of  weary  earth, 
Bear  thou  To-morrow's  birth; 
Take  all  our  longings  up  to  Him 
Until  His  stars  grow  dim; 
A  moving  anchorage  of  prayer, 
Thou  cool  and  healing  air, 
Heading  off-shore  till  shoreless  dawn 
Breaks  fair  and  night  is  gone. 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    43 


AIR  CURRENTS 

Far  overhead,  in  untried  air, 

A  lonely  eagle  sails, 
And,  soaring  effortless,  like  prayer — 

Which  only  thus  avails — 
He  is  borne  up,  without  one  stroke 
Of  his  great  wings;  and  little  folk, 

Who  only  know  earth's  little  things 
And  cannot  understand  what  force 
Lifts  him  unerring  on  his  course, 

Sigh  for  the  secret  of  his  wings. 


44    MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 


THE  HOBBY-HORSE 

This  is  the  Christmas  toy 
You  gave  your  little  boy? 
A  hobby  horse,  all  bright 
With  harness  red  and  white; 
Already  it  is  lame, 
Worn  out  by  many  a  game 
Of  riding  up  and  down 
The  streets  of  Nursery  Town; 
The  bridle  reins  are  torn 
And  both  its  ears  are  shorn  .  . 

Fast  sleeping  in  his  bed, 
His  master's  curly  head 
Dreams  of  to-morrow's  rides: 
In  dreams  he  still  bestrides 
A  charger  black  as  night, 
Famoused  from  many  a  fight  I 
He  is  Chief  Golden  Hair, 
Custer  the  debonair; 
In  dreams  he  leads  his  men 
Against  the  Sioux  again; 


MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING    45 


THE  HOBBY-HORSE  (Continued) 

Ringed  'round  by  painted  braves, 
His  whole  command  he  saves! 

Or,  smiling  in  his  sleep, 
He  feels  his  charger  leap 
Against  the  Paynim  spears, 
And  in  his  drowsy  ears 
He  hears  the  battle  calls 
That   rang   at    Roncesvalles  .  .  4 

With  Winchester  a  score 
Of  miles  away,  the  roar 
Of  cannon  tells  him  then 
He  must  lead  on  his  men 
And  take  his  thund'rous  track 
To  turn  the  stragglers  backl 

Or,  mightiest  of  dreams, 
For  a  world's  peace  he  seems 
To  lead  the  meek  to  arms! 

Thus,  cradled  from  all  harms, 
A  smiling  Lion-Heart, 
He  takes  a  hero's  part 
And  rides  his  magic  horse 
Through  all  the  ages'  course  .  .  . 


46  MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 

THE  HOBBY-HORSE  (Continued) 

Ah,  little  curly  head, 
Safe  in  your  drowsy  bed, 
Those  battles  are  all  done, 
Yours  yet  to  come,  small  son! 

So  we  sit  musing  here 
And  strive  to  see  made  clear 
What  hobby  you  shall  mount 
In  years  you  yet  must  count; 
What  hopes  forlorn  you'll  lead; 
What  brave  rides,  on  what  steed! 


MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING    jH 


THOMPSON  STREET 

Queen  of  all  streets,  Fifth  Avenue 

Stretches  her  slender  limbs 
From  the  great  Arch  of  Triumph,  on, — 

On,  where  the  distance  dims 

The  splendours  of  her  jewelled  robes, 

Her  granite  draperies; 
The  magic,  sunset-smitten  walls   ' 

That  veil  her  marble  knees; 

For  ninety  squares  she  lies  a  queen, 

Superb,  bare,  unashamed, 
Yielding  her  beauty  scornfully 

To  worshippers  unnamed. 

But  at  her  feet  her  sister  glows, 

A  daughter  of  the  South : 
Squalid,  immeasurably  mean, — 

But  O !  her  hot,  sweet  mouth ! 

My  Thompson  Street!    A  Tuscan  girl, 
Hot  with  life's  wildest  blood; 


48  MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 


THOMPSON  STREET  (Continued) 

Her  black  shawl  on  her  black,  black  hair, 
Her  brown  feet  stained  with  mud; 

A  scarlet  blossom  at  her  lips, 

A  new  babe  at  her  breast; 
A  singer  at  a  wine-shop  door, 

(Her  lover  unconfessed). 

Listen!    A  hurdy-gurdy  plays 

Now  alien  melodies : 
She  smiles;  she  cannot  quite  forget 

The  mother  overseas ! 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    49 


THE  MOTHER 

She  had  a  little  baby  when  she  first  became  a  wife, 

A  tiny  child  she  never  saw  on  earth — 

While  she  was  still  unconscious  from  the  fever  of 

that  strife, 
It  died  ...  it  died  an  hour  from  its  birth ; 

She  never  saw  that  daughter  who  was  gone  before 

she  woke 
(It   must   have    seemed    almost   too    small    for 

Death  .  .  .) 
But  often  she  has  wakened  since  and  thought  her 

baby  spoke, 
And  felt  upon  her  cheek  that  tiny  breath; 

She   sometimes  cries,    alone   at  night  .  .  .  silly 

enough  of  her, 
(No  one  but  you  will  ever  understand!) 
But  oh,  it  was  so  many  days  she  felt  her  baby  stir, 
And,   in  the  nights  .  .  .  how  many  things  she 

planned ! 


50    MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 


THE  BONDWOMAN 

Then  why  should  she  complain? 
She  chooses  this — the  hardship  and  the  pain, 
The  unrelieved,  unbeautiful,  dull  train 
Of  services  to  others;  hand  and  brain 
Outwearied  with  the  drudgery  of  earth. 
Then  why  should  she  be  angry  at  my  mirth? 
At  me,  who  have  been  idle  from  my  birth, 
Whose  unearned  plenty  mocks  her  unpaid  worth? 

I  choose  to  do  with  nothing  wearisome; 

I  choose  to  feast,  to  toss  to  her  no  crumb; 

I  choose  to  sing,  when  she,  from  toil,  is  dumb; 

I  spend  her  life  for  warmth,  when  she  is  numb; 

I  spend  her  toil  for  pleasure,  choosing  well 

To  make  my  life  a  heaven,  hers  a  hell. 

Then  why  should  she  complain? 
She  knows  her  life  has  in  it  nothing  vain, 
And  that  before  the  throne  where  Right  must 
reign, 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    51 

THE  BONDWOMAN  (Continued) 

Justice  shall  her  great  recompense  constrain. 
Then  shall  I  not  at  last  know  her  disdain? 

Not  so,  this  woman :  in  Heaven's  garden-close 
She'll  weep,  remembering  the  path  I  chose. 


52    MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 


FLOWER-GIRL 

One  night,  when  none  you  knew  was  near  you, 
In  a  strange  city  built  of  brick  and  stone, 

You,  in  your  loneliness,  thought  none  could  hear 
you, 
And  wept  .  .  .  alone. 


Your  flowers,  that  seemed  to  you  so  pleading, 
Faded,  unsold,  upon  your  narrow  bed; 

The  city  scorned  them;  and  your  heart  was  bleed- 
ing, 
And  hope  lay  dead. 


But  I,  whose  love  for  you  had  semblance 

To  yours  for  each  wan  flower  and  drooping 
sheaf, 
Heard  all  your  tears ;  and  from  them  my  remem- 
brance 
Has  no  relief. 


MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING    53 

FLOWER-GIRL  (Continued) 

You  were  so  faint,  and  life  so  cruel  to  you  I 

And  though  your  lips  are  smiling  now  in  sleeps 

I  cannot  see  why  any  one  who  knew  you 
Should  let  you  weep  1 


54  MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 

i 


NURSERY  JINGLE 

\A  young  waitress  was  sent  to  the  Tombs  prison  for  stealing 
three  silver  mesh  purses  and  two  gold  tie  clasps.  Magistrate 
Blank  said:  "Look  at  the  woman  and  look  at  her  finery!  It  is 
quite  surprising  how  none  of  these  women  steals  anything  that 
is  a  necessity  of  life — they  always  steal  some  personal  adorn- 
ment."—Daily  papers.] 

I  hold  no  brief  for  thug  or  thief 

(Though  they're  much  like  me  and  you), 
But  there's  no  relief  from  the  world-old  grief 

Of  "One  'plus  One  is  Two!" 

Yes,  One  plus  One  is  fact,  not  fun, 

It's  neither  more  nor  less; 
Who  cares  if  it's  true  that  the  lads  leave  you 

To  follow  a  flaunting  dress? 
For  Wealth  is  mine  and  Love  is  hers, 

And  neither  belongs  to  you; 
And  ours  is  the  right  to  keep  our  delight 

And  leave  nothing  for  you  when  we're  through. 

Who  cares  if  the  one  wild  passion  run 
To  feel  the  dizzying  breath 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    55 


NURSERY  JINGLE  (Continued) 

Of  the  world's  red  lips  on  your  finger  tips? 

Can  a  soul  be  starved  to  death? 
Ah,  we  add  each  Fact,  but  never  subtract, 

For  if  once  such  a  thing  were  begun, 
Just  think  of  the  greed  We  would  have  to  feed! 

(A  soul  doesn't  need  any  sun.) 

And  all  of  this  seems  but  the  crazy  dreams 

Of  the  girl  who  stood  in  court 
And  dully  heard  the  Judge's  word: 

"You  are  all  alike,  your  sort  I 
You  were   clothed;   you   were   fed,   on   wheaten 
bread, 

You'd  have  scorned  to  ask  for  a  meal, 
You   had   nothing   to    do   when   your   day  was 
through, 

And  yet  you  chose — to  steal! 
One  might  forgive  if  you  stole  to  live, 

For  the  body  is  worth  its  cost, 
But  you  only  stole  to  feed  your  soul, 

And  who  cares  .  .  ."     The  ending  is  lost. 

/  hold  no  brief  for  thug  or  thief 

{Though  they're  much  like  me  and  you), 

But  there's  no  relief  from  the  world-old  grief 
Of  One  plus  One  is  Two! 


56    MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 


INDEPENDENCE  HALL:  19 15 

There  is  an  old,  old  city 

Beside  the  Delaware, 
Whose  life  flows  'round  the  cloister 

Galled  Independence  Square; 

Beneath  the  cool  green  arches 

Reared  by  its  quiet  trees, 
Through  all  the  long  hot  summer 

There  runs  a  little  breeze  : 


A  breath  of  air,  that  rises 
And  dies  away  again, 

As  fleeting  as  the  longings 
Of  tired  workingmen, 

Who  sit  there  on  the  benches, 
Too  tired  to  move  or  laugh, 

With  eyes  fixed  on  Old  Glory, 
Drooping  from  its  tall  staff. 


MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING    57 

INDEPENDENCE  HALL:  1915  (Continued) 

And  these  men  talk  together 

About  the  shady  Square, 
And  wonder  why  that  building 

Should  still  be  standing  there. 


58  MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 


DREAMERS 

O  little  naked  room  wherein 
Our  work-day  life  is  spent, 

When  will  you  cease  to  hem  us  in> 
And  leave  the  sky  our  tent? 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    59 


THE  DRUM 


This  is  the  heady  drum 

Quenched  in  a  long-past  battle; 
No  more  in  years  to  come 

Will  sound  its  thump  and  rattle. 

But  from  its  shattered  head 
There  sounds  the  undying  story 

Of  those  heroic  dead 

Whom  the  drum  led  to  glory: 

"A  boy — too  young  to  bear 
A  musket  with  the  others, 

Still  firmly  bound  to  share 

A  service  like  his  brother's — 

Bore  me,  the  voice  of  war, 
From  his  New  England  village, 

And,  marching  on  before, 

Sowed  fields  for  war's  red  tillage. 


60    MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 

p— — — ^ ^ — — — — — — — 

THE  DRUM  (Continued) 

"His  very  life  he  gave, 

So  dear  was  freedom  to  him; 

Forget  ye  not  the  brave, 
And  the  thrill  running  through  him !" 

Sons  I  look  on  this  dead  drum, 
See  what  Peace  cannot  show  you 

In  all  your  years  to  come, 
Or  wheresoever  go  you: 

There  see  the  Heart  of  Man — 
War,  only,  naked  shows  it; 

Yea,  in  awed  silence  scan 
The  grim  war-drum  that  knows  it! 

This  is  the  heart  of  fire 

That  burst  with  its  hot  beating, 
The  voice  that  called  my  sire 

To  war  without  retreating; 

This  is  the  parchment  throat 

Choked  with  its  own  hot  clangour; 

Whose  last  long-throbbing  note 
Broke  in  its  bitter  anger; 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    61 

THE  DRUM   (Continued) 

This  is  life's  hottest  vein, 

Cooled  by  its  own  blood's  bursting; 
To  slake  those  yet  unslain 

In  Freedom's  quenchless  thirsting  I 


62     MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 

— i 


EASTER,  19 17 

On  Good  Friday  this  was  done: 

A  nation,  silent,  raised  the  sword 

And  kissed  its  blade;  while  tears  welled  slowly. 

Good  Friday!    Day  held  ever  holy 
Since  One  who  had  no  fear  of  death, 
No  part  with  hate;  who  drew  no  breath 
That  was  not  drawn  for  others'  sake, 
Suffered  Himself  to  be,  by  men, 
Driv'n  into  darkness  past  our  ken. 

Good  Friday!    Those  who  seemed  to  see 
In  that  day's  tale  a  mockery 
Of  all  we  vowed  in  other  years, 
In  many  a  church,  at  many  an  altar; 
Who  said  greed,  only,  made  us  palter; 
Who  wait  To-morrow  with  black  fears 
For  all  the  hard  won  heights  whereon 
Sight  may  be  had  of  nobler  dawn — 

To-morrow,  from  the  sepulchre 
Scented  with  sorrow's  costly  myrrh, 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    63 

EASTER,  191 7  (Continued) 

A  mightier  force  than  theirs  shall  shake 
Old  wall  to  dust !    Right  shall  awake. 

For,  in  the  souls  of  men  shall  gleam 
Memories  of  you  who  kill  your  dream 
Of  selfish  lives — of  you,  who  give 
Your  lives  for  those  who  fear  to  live. 

Why  seek  the  living  among  dead? 
Look  to  To-morrow,  whose  bright  head 
Is  clothed  in  lightnings !    He  shall  speak 
The  word  for  which  you  vainly  seek: 
"Only  him  crucified  shall  rise — 
He  clearliest  sees  who  gladliest  dies!" 

Good  Friday!     In  the  sweet,  clear  light 
Of  Easter  morning,  see  aright 
The  meaning  of  the  challenging: 
"A  sword,  not  peace,  to  you  I  bring  1" 

These  dare  the  tomb — 

And  light  bursts  brighter   from   the   darkness' 
womb. 


64  MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 


VICTORY? 

We  that  are  weak  are  lonelier  to-night: 

For  all  the  learned, 

The  men  of  knowledge,  those  who  might 

Have  warmed  the  world's  worn  heart,  have  turned 

To  unenduring  things  .  .  . 

And  those  who  yearned 

For  God's  great  gift  of  vision  and  the  wings 

Of  mighty  truth  have  each  one  spurned 

The  upward-climbing  path  that  leads 

To  happy  upland  meads; 

Their   hearts — not   dead   nor  living,   that   once 

burned 
With  a  false  fire — are  cold. 
Do  they  forget  the  meek? 
Shall  they,  who  might  be  bold 
To  stoop  and  gather  all  the  poor  and  old 
In  an  immortal  happiness,  be  weak? 
O  ye  who  are  endowed 
Beyond  us  who  are  frail, 
Whose  hands  cannot  avail, 
God  calleth  you  aloud 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MOHXIXG    Go 

VICTORY?   (Continued) 

Through  his  innumerous  peoples'  prayer! 
Shall  they  that  dare  the  skull-marked  desert  trail, 
To  reach  the  promised  well,  find  no  fresh  water 
there  ? 


66    MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 


TO-MORROW'S  WAR 

In  the  cold,  wet,  and  moaning  night 
I  left  my  home,  its  warmth,  its  light, 
To  pace  alone  through  many  a  dark  and  silent 

street: 
The  old,  cold  blood  of  many  kings  long  dead, 
The  heavy  lips  of  many  souls  long  fled, 
Seemed  pressing  down  upon  me  like  a  winding- 
sheet. 

I  left  my  home,  its  warmth,  its  light, 

Its  half-read  tale  of  ancient  fight, 

(The  battle's  blows,  its  shocks,  its  tumult  in  my 

brain 
All  quenched  at  leaving,  like  a  wind-blown  lamp), 
And  the  night  wrapped  me  in  its  mantle  damp, 
And  mourned  around  me  with  its  cold  and  fitful 

rain. 
But  the  dawn's  breath  sang  keener  songs: 
Of  battle  with  to-morrow's  wrongs, 
And  the  wild  north-wind  stung  my  cheek  until  it 

burned, 


MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING    67 


TO-MORROW'S  WAR  (Continued) 
As  though  to  wake  me  to  its  minstrelsy 
Of  deeds  and  blood-wrought  justice  yet  to  be  .  .  . 
And  fresher  air  with  the  unconquered  morn  re- 
turned. 


68     MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 


THE  HOLY  WAR 


In  garments  old, 
By  a  great  river, 
Its  dreamer  trolled 
(His  heart  a-guiver), 
"In  a  high  street 
Of  the  great  town, 
The  people  meet, 
The  rich  folk  frown, 
The  rabble  presses, 
The  children  shout; 
In  costlier  dresses 
Goes  the  gay  rout; 
The  wind  is  cold, 
The  poor  folk  shiver 
In  garments  old, 
By  the  great  River! 


"In  a  high  street 

Of  the  great  town, 

The  church  bell  sweet 

Sends  rolling  down 

A  thundering  chime, 

To  make  thrones  tremble 

Is  it  not  time 

Ye  men   assemble? 

0  wondrous  sea 
Of  human  hearts, 
Lift  me  on  thee 
Till  fear  departs! 
Hers  all  the  gold 

1  have  to  give  her: 
Your  city  old, 

By  the  great  River!" 


How  blindly  have  you  lived,  my  lords, 
That  now  you  blink  at  flashing  swords? 
Why  whisper  to  your  neighbour  there, 
"What  war  is  this,  and  why,  and  where? 
Of  wars  /  have  had  word  of  none, 
Yet  speaks  this  troop  a  bloody  one ! 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    69 


THE  HOLY  WAR  (Continued) 

Who  are  these  men  that  break  our  ease 
With  scars  of  fighting  overseas?" 

These  are  the  men  who  gave  up  all 

(And  some  were  born  to   a  princely  hall, 

And  some  were  snug  in  their  rags  as  you) 

To  venture  their  lives  as  nobles  do, 

In  the  utmost  service  of  the  King, 

And  this  is  their  mighty  marshalling! 

i\h,  little  did  you,  blind  and  dull, 

Think  these  would  e'er  be  worshipful  1 

You  curled  your  lip  in  days  gone  by 

At  the  poor  fools  who  went  to  die 

For  sorry  wage  and  strange  reward: 

Warrant  to  serve  a  pauper  Lord! 

And  stranger  still  their  long  campaign: 

Theirs  is  no  war  for  earthly  gain, 

But,  facing  a  fearful  enemy, 

They  die  that  others  may  be  free; 

By  faith  subduing  earthly  wrong; 

By  faith  they  toil  and  suffer  long, 

Enduring  mockings,  and  the  scourge, 

And  prison  bonds;  these  only  urge 

Their  spirits  to  more  splendid  deeds 


70     MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING 

THE  HOLY  WAR  (Continued) 

Along  the  way  their  Captain  leads ! 
Whence  came  such  pain-despising  love? 
How  great  of  soul,  how  much  above 
Our  common  life,  how  deep  our  debt, 
Only  in  vision  can  be  set. 
Yes,   more  than   conquerors   are  they, 
For  their  great  King  himself  shall  say 
That  neither  depth,  nor  height,  nor  death, 
Nor  life,  nor  any  mortal  breath, 
Nor  present  things,  nor  things  above, 
Shall  separate  them  from  His  love! 

What  is  this  glorious   company? 
What  radiant  troop  is  this  you  see? 

These  are  the  men  of  holy  wars, 
Their  armour  dented,  their  many  scars 
Dreadful  to  see;  their  clothing  worn, 
Their  faces  haggard,  their  banners  torn, 
Their  numbers  few — but,  oh,  what  fire 
Burns  in  their  eyes !     How  like  a  choir 
That  chanteth  a  glorious  minster-song, 
Their  battle  hymn  as  they  stride  along! 
They  cannot  die!  but,  living  yet, 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING    71 


THE  HOLY  WAR  (Continued) 

While  tears  make  happy  eyelids  wet, 
Forward  they  surge,  a  mighty  band, 
And,   dying,   live  .  .  .  and,   falling,   stand! 


72     MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 


SARRAN 

Sarran,  the  music  master, 

Has  gone  beyond  the  sea; 
His  journeyings  are  vaster 

Than  guessed  by  you  or  me  .  . 
We  knew  his  heart  was  broken, 

Though  why  we  did  not  know— 
Sarran,  what  word  was  spoken, 

That  made  you  smile  and  go? 

Beyond  the  wine-dark  mountains, 

Beyond  the  violet  sea, 
Beyond  the  silver  fountains 

Of  purple  Castaly, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  vision, 

(O  matchless  melody!) 
He  hears  the  harps  Elysian 

Of  a  lost  eternity! 

On  earth  he  might  not  listen, 
On  earth  he  might  hear  not; 

On  earth  no  tears  might  glisten 
Within  his  eyelids  hot; 


MERCHANTS  OF  THE  MORNING     73 


SARRAN  (Continued) 

On  earth  he  knew  no  fountains 
(Nor  ever  might  he  know), 
But  past  the  wine-dark  mountains 
The  singing  waters  flow. 

Redeem  his  ancient  honor, 

Redeem  it  with  a  song; 
Redeem  it,  you  who  won  her 

And  left  him  only  wrong; 
Redeem  it,  dole  thus  flinging, 

(He  will  not  thank  you  now) , 
He  hears  alone  her  singing  .  .  0 

(Her  soul  alone  knows  how). 

Beyond  the   sunrise  mountains, 

Beyond  the  sun-swept  sea, 
Beyond  the  deathless   fountains 

Of  laughing  Castaly^ 
Beyond  the  reach  of  vision, 

(O  matchless  melody!) 
He  hears  the  harps  Elysian 

Of  a  lost  eternity. 


74  MERCHANTS  OF  TEE  MORNING 


REVEILLE 

Dream,  dreamer,  until  life 

Her  outworn  self  renews, 
Dream,  while  the  silver  moon 

Rains  down  her  magic  dews; 
Dream  for  the  weary  earth 

All  happy  things  to  do — 
But,  when  you  wake  this  morn, 

O  make  your  dream  come  true 


0040 


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